


Then the People Stare

by drthicc



Category: Morrissey (Musician), The Smiths
Genre: Band Fic, Johnny Marr - Freeform, M/M, Marrissey, Morrissey - Freeform, The Smiths - Freeform, the queen is dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:53:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22078759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drthicc/pseuds/drthicc
Summary: Johnny Marr is not a gay man, no sir. He is attracted to femininity. Unfortunately, he knows a rather feminine man.
Relationships: Johnny Marr/Morrissey
Comments: 31
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

We recorded most of the Queen is Dead in Jacobs, a welcoming, Georgian-style house isolated in Surrey. The field surrounding it used to be farmland, but at this point was only used for having a quick smoke or drink driving a tractor into the pool. Andy, Mike, and I would huddle around with Stephen, our sound engineer, in the old fashioned Studio 1 while Morrissey pranced around in the grass or searched for somewhere better to sulk.

The merry Mozzer didn’t make himself easy to love by anyone’s standards. He had a nearly toneless, pretentious voice, you know what it sounds like. And yet he couldn’t be mithered to speak confidently! He was right because he was right, and you just _knew_ you couldn’t convince him otherwise.

An’ how he stuck his lips or his chin out while I spoke made me want to give him a proper bollocking. But even in those days I wasn’t allowed to make fun of his lisp ‘cause he could be rather, er, camp. Apparently making fun of that is “bad for your image” according to Angie, or “he might hear you” according to Mike. God, his hair bothered me too. Only by accident did it look good, the same cheap barber did all our hair. But I told him it looked fine when he asked so his little blue eyes wouldn’t go all watery and pitiful.

“Right on, looks like Elvis,” I said, wondering if I could write a lie off as charity. Then I added “had he died of electrocution” under my breath.

Morrissey managed, somehow, to be so bothersome and pathetic that I began to feel protective of him.

“Why’s he always got to butt in his ideas like that?” Andy asked during day 5 thousand of recording, head in his hands.

“Dunno mate,” I answered quietly.

This only made Andy more aggravated, as he was used to me starting the post-Morrissey ritual of complaining about him. Stephen Street was in his desk chair at the soundboard beside me, ignoring our personal matters besides the accidental snicker here and there.

“And how come he only likes what you play ‘im?”

“It’s nothin’ personal. He just… really cares, he does.”

I wondered why I was even defending him. It wasn’t like he deserved it, really.

Then we heard the click of the door knob behind us and Morrissey slithered in. Old jeans and an oversized blue cardigan hung off him, which caught my eye for being the same one he’d worn while we bundled up together to write music. He would show up at my doorstep, still giggling about something I’d said the day before. I wondered if it would kill him to say hello like a normal human being.

For months we sat only a few inches from the other’s face in a darkening bedroom, a Walkman between my legs, giving each other understanding smiles and sharing childlike excitement for the first time in our lives. Eventually we listened to everything we owned, from the Stooges to the Supremes. When I’d had enough Supremes, I took out my own guitar. I watched carefully for a reaction while I played the riffs I’d come up with, but Morrissey was determined to avoid my gaze. Probably worried I would suck the ideas out of him optically over other, more preferable methods.

Sometimes we’d spend as many as six hours underneath my window - we joked that the rain against it surely counted as a drummer, and better than Ringo. The sky grew darker and darker gray, which signaled Morrissey’s looming curfew, as well as supper time in Manchester.

A few times he stayed late, his hunger audibly interrupting my guitar. A soothing hand rested on his stomach and the other waved at me to continue.

“Oh, go on now,” he pleaded.

The survival instincts of the body, ever the nuisance to Morrissey.

“Yes, beautiful,” he praised as my fingers found their place again. I half wondered if he meant the riff or me.

But that disheveled kid in my bedroom was dead and this is him now, feeling left out and sick of the success he had wanted so badly. He gave me an apologetic look as he joined us in the control room, and I felt a strange pang of loss. I wished once more that he could just say hello like a normal human being.

“There’s our grumpy old man,” Andy said anything but welcomingly.

Moz didn’t give him a reaction. He sat on the couch across from us with his legs crossed, long fingers running drowsily through his dark hair. I knew Andy would crucify me, but I couldn’t help it.

“Come on now Mozzer, have yourself a bev.”

I reached into the mini fridge, used exclusively for keeping beer cold and chocolate edible, and Morrissey’s heavy eyebrows lifted. He allowed me to place a bottle in his hand, which he drank silently.

The rest of us resumed normal conversation. Thankfully there were minimal technical issues that day (the Mitsubishi had proven to be a right nightmare), and the case of how to record the drums had been more or less settled on.

“We’ll get you back in there soon, Johnny, and then hopefully we can get Moz in the live room tonight if that works.”

“If we can find him,” Mike said not so quietly to Andy.

Morrissey nodded wearily and stood up, collecting my empty bottle and both of his.

“Where you off to this time, Moz?” Andy sneered, standing up after him. “Care to show us your secret hiding place?”

“If you care to join me in the toilet, yes,” Morrissey replied, busying himself with the jingling bottles.

“Johnny fancies it,” Andy said after a promising hesitation.

He followed this with the cheekiest of winks and a smile in my direction. I shot a desperate look at our sound engineer, which landed on the back of his head.

“Know what? Yeah, I think I will.”

I was the only person in the room Morrissey would make eye contact with, and fleetingly, he did.

“Go on, then,” I urged him. “Let’s go.”

I practically dragged him out of the room and let the door swing shut behind us. In a blur of blue cardigan, he turned around and said my name affectionately. I affectionately shoved him in the direction of the bathroom.

Soon enough I had my Walkman on me and Moz following sheepishly behind. I led him through the wooden backdoors of the old house, wondering what Andy and Mike would be saying about me at this point. Faggot, wanker, co-conspirator to faggotry. But Moz was right - what difference did it make?

It occurred to me then that I was experiencing, finally, what he had been feeling all this time.

“Thank you, Johnny,” he said quietly, not quite ready to look me in the eyes again.

“Don’t mention it. Really - don’t.”

My heart was pounding as we crossed the deck. The air was refreshing but chilly, and I shivered slightly. Whether this was from nerves or not I wasn’t certain.

“Wait a second Mozzer, wait,” I said suddenly.

“Yes?”

“All those songs, I mean, I had suspicions…”

His blue eyes widened and he licked his lips anxiously.

“You know, what difference does it make, hand in glove? The afternoons we spent in my room,” I said quietly. “And all the others.”

Morrissey glanced back at the windows behind us, looking for a way out. When he found none, he sighed and ran his fingers through his hair before responding.

“Well, what about them?” he asked quickly.

“I don’t know, Moz. I just... I get it. I understand now.”

I was frustrated at him for being so difficult, but that’s how he’s always been. Young Moz even more so. Young Moz had a smart tongue reserved for these situations, now missing in action. I expected a snappy response along the lines of “well, they weren’t _all_ about you, don’t have a big head,” but he only looked down at the deck and shuffled his feet. The poor little guy was probably terrified.

“Johnny, I’m sorry-” he choked out.

“Don’t be silly now,” I interrupted, already wanting to put him out of his misery. “Just show me your favorite little hiding spot. Let’s get the fuck away from here.”

He nodded, forcing his lips into the smallest smile he could muster. Then we set off across the field together, the earthy smell of the recent rain swirling around us. We made some awkward small talk about the recording process until we found ourselves at the edge of the field and beyond sight of the Jacobs house. Tall green hedges surrounded the perimeter and marked the end of the property.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I asked as he squeezed his way through the hedges.

“Sorry, haven’t inquired about a door installation.”

“Piss off.”

Once we pushed through the hedges, there was a light forest ahead of us. Thankfully Morrissey didn’t make to traverse this, and instead sat right down on the wet grass. I wondered why he had to be such a weird motherfucker all the time.

“Well, I see why you like it back here,” I said, sitting down next to him and admiring the bare trees around us. I was careful to place the Walkman in my lap.

“Mmm,” he drawled, his eyes closing for a moment.

“So this is where you go to cry and write poetry?”

His blue eyes hit me again. They aren’t an electrifying blue as some are so keen to describe them as, they’re actually a very gentle blue. Like the ocean when it’s raining. Which sounds very er, you know, but that’s really what they remind me of. Nothing gay.

“Only after Andy’s horrendous take the other day. You should have done it for him.”

“If only,” I agreed, turning in the grass to face him.

I put the Walkman on my crossed legs so that it was between us. Moz’s hands came terribly close to my lap as he opened the Walkman.

“Well, there’s nothing good in here,” he observed, grimacing.

“Just like the old days.”

“Do you miss them?” he asked bluntly.

Morrissey closed the Walkman and put it back on my lap. Something in me felt terribly excited, like a child playing hide and seek. And maybe that’s exactly what we were. I imagined Mike and Andy still in the control room, none the wiser, but the idea of them hunting us down gave me a disturbing thrill.

“Meant more to me than any living thing on earth,” I smirked.

“Oh, you can’t quote me, that doesn’t count,” he said, smiling. “You know, some would call that plagiarism.”

“Very well then. I call it clever.”

I watched when the smile faded from his face. His eyebrows fell again as he looked down to the grass he was fiddling with.

Something was pulling me closer to him. I felt the urge to shake him, to ruin him, as I’d tried before, shoving him into girls at a party (always fantastic entertainment for Mike and Andy) or giving him a pat a little lower on the back to get a rise out of him. He was so dreadfully pretty, so unfortunately reserved. It was like the urge to pick a flower out of the ground.

We sat in silence for a few moments, listening to the odd crack of a branch and the flow of moving water. His dark hair was falling down onto his forehead, the usually undefeatable hair gel falling victim to the breeze.

“Moz,” I said softly, “you have to promise me.”

I let go of the Walkman and put my hand on his jeans. He breathed in sharply.

“Promise what-”

I leaned in close to him, raising my hand to run along the back of his neck. He shivered.

“Don’t tell anyone.”

Before he could respond I leaned in and kissed him for the first time. It felt like years of tension released from my shoulders. Now there was nothing we hadn’t shared, no more secrets between us.

Moz kissed me so hard in return that I wondered if he’d ever done it before. I couldn’t help but laugh and pulled away after a few seconds. His eyes widened and he looked desperate to know why I was laughing, but he was too flustered to ask.

I hadn’t intended on it, but I pulled him back in. Everything just felt... natural. Two humans with a deep bond, awkwardly fumbling our hands around the other’s body, enjoying the feelings of being touched and desired. Nobody was there to judge us save for the surrounding leafless trees, which were so kind as to offer us their sanctuary.

Morrissey slid his cardigan off and fell onto his back, grinning as I had scarcely seen him do. I smiled back at the ridiculousness of it all.

“We even have a romantic lakeside view,” Moz giggled, looking to the puddle beside him that he’d narrowly avoided.

“You’re mental, you know.”

His legs were open in front of me. I crawled toward him, careful to place my palms on his inner thighs for balance, and soon I was on top of him.

Our lips met again. I pushed his hair back, making a right mess of the famous quiff, and his long hands gripped my sides in an endearingly gentle caress.

“Johnny,” he said longingly, and something mad stirred within me.

I swear to this day I’m not homosexual. But the effeminate nature of the man and the moaning of my name turned off everything even the slightest bit rational in my mind. Moz spread his legs further apart and I slid my tongue between his inexperienced lips, and soon I was the one moaning, aching inside my already tight jeans.

Then we heard a rustling coming from the hedges.

“Get the _fuck_ up!” I said to Morrissey, scrambling to my feet. He took my muddy hand and hid behind me.

A shoe and an outstretched arm appeared from the hedge, along with the groans of complaining and talking. I turned my back to the hedges, looked at the horrified Moz, and made my decision.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing!” I shouted at him.

Then I slapped Morrissey in the face.

“Ooooh!” shouted Mike and Andy from only a few feet away.

“What the fuck happened here, Johnny?” Andy shouted, unable to control his laughter.

Moz’s blue eyes welled with tears. He covered his face with his hands, unable to look at the rest of us.

“Been a right fuckin’ prick, he has,” I announced.

I picked up Morrissey’s cardigan off the ground and threw it at him.

“Clean yourself up and get back in the bloody studio.”

This was the last thing I told him before walking away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter reads rather like Rapunzel if the prince was a complete bastard.

I tossed and turned most of the night, and I sure looked like it the next day. But I knew I had to pull myself together. 

I showered, brushed my hair nicely, and smoked an extra cigarette before going around the Jacobs house in search of Stephen Street. A quick glance in the hall mirror told me I’d done an acceptable job. Walking in there looking like shit would be damn near incriminating itself, and I knew Morrissey wasn’t going to be looking any better. They'd call us an old married couple. 

“You look like shit,” Stephen observed as soon as I entered the control room. Thankfully, he was alone.

“What’s bloody wrong, then? I wore my best shirt for you.”

“Would help if you washed it,” he said, turning his attention to the notebook on his board. “And Jesus, you smell like a chimney.”

Can’t please everyone, I suppose. I sat down on the couch where Morrissey had been yesterday and felt a sharp pang at the thought of him. 

“Where are we all at now?” I asked, my best attempt at a distraction. 

Half the time I didn’t even know what track was due to be recorded next. Everything about the album was assembled as a puzzle, and the fact we pulled it off seemed a small miracle. Recordings happened in three different locations at three different times, finished takes suffered technical hitches to the point of being useless, and the album was recorded so out of its final order that I have many of our old set lists memorised better. 

“Never Had No One is as good as done,” Stephen said. “Moz had a few shandies an’ did his vocals last night. He was really into it, even started crying a few times. What a performer.”

I was quiet after this, thinking about the live room but unable to look at it. Of course he would have screened the room off as usual last night. The thought of him in there recording vocals to my guitar and crying practically broke my heart in two, and I knew I deserved to feel that way. I wallowed in this misery until Andy arrived, at which point I wished I could sink into the couch and be swallowed whole.

“All recovered after the fight yesterday?” Andy said with a smirk, sitting down next to Stephen at the board.

“Fight?” Stephen asked, trying not to sound too interested. 

“Mike an’ I found Johnny and Mozzer having a scrap in the woods!”

Stephen turned around in his chair while Andy grinned like it was Christmas morning.

“Johnny, is that true? What was all that about?” 

“Bit of a lovers’ tiff,” Andy added, and my mind filled with TV static.

I insisted that it was nothing, only high tensions, while I racked my brain for any excuse I had. What was I even doing last night and why the fuck wasn’t I thinking of a cover story? I knew I was supposed to be laughing his comment off, I was supposed to look casual, but nothing about this felt casual. How much had Andy really seen?

I don’t remember what I said next, but it was something along the lines of creative differences getting to a point and didn’t seem to convince anyone. 

“Creative differences don’t cover people in mud,” Andy shot back.

Stephen looked at Andy incredulously.

“Oh come on, really?” Stephen asked. “Are you seriously accusing Johnny of -”

Stephen cut himself off and glared at Andy, who laughed at him. 

“All I’m saying is, we don’t really know what happened back there. And Johnny doesn’t seem to want to tell us for some reason. Couldn’t imagine why....”

“Fine!” I shouted, exasperated. “The reason I didn’t want to tell you is because, er, it started with Morrissey not liking some of Mike’s drumming the other day. Some. And I didn’t want Mike to know. And Moz was being such a prat about it, you know how he gets, and things just escalated-”

“Oh, Mike’s going to _love_ this,” Andy said, a devilish grin on his face.

The regret of that lie hit me instantly. All I knew was that I had to get to Morrissey, I had to warn him, I had to ask him if there was even the slightest chance we were actually spotted. If he would even let me speak to him after this.

“I should find him before we record more. Talk to him,” I mumbled.

“Are you sure he’s not still crying behind the hedges?” Andy sneered.

I couldn’t help but imagine Morrissey after I left yesterday, holding onto the cardigan I had thrown at him, tears rolling down his cheeks. He would have stayed there longer so as not to come across the rest of us, the mud all over his clothes a reminder of his broken heart and humiliation. The muddy hand prints would stay on his clothes behind the hedges and during the trip back to his room, all until he had to wash them or throw them out. 

Feeling like things couldn’t have gone worse, I left the control room in search of my best friend, whom I’d now disappointed again. 

I checked the other empty studios as casually as I could. The last thing I needed was for anyone to spot me frantically running around looking for Morrissey, assuming I was going to go run into his arms sobbing. And part of me thought, hell, compared to all of this, that wouldn’t even be so bad. But with no sign of him, I set off through the back field, lighting yet another cigarette and sucking on it anxiously. 

What would I even say to him if he was behind the hedges? Sorry I slapped you in the face and broke your heart but you should really worry about our band mates thinking I’m gay? Don’t mean to bother you, but I lied about you to save myself and now I need to tell you? It hurt too much to come up with any lines to rehearse - I was going to have to improvise, wherever I found him. I pushed the hedges aside briskly.

“Mozzer?” I called out, my voice weak. But he was nowhere to be seen.

The walk back to the studio felt hours long. The white mansion grew steadily more visible through the fog, the mansion where we were supposed to be recording our best album yet. The first time I played There is A Light with Morrissey, I was convinced we’d be recording the best song of all time here. And now all we had were broken tracks and a runaway lead singer. 

Defeated, I threw my coat onto the couch in the Studio 1 control room, and Mike, Andy, and Stephen Street suddenly stopped talking. 

“Can’t find him anywhere,” I said. “He’s left the mud at least.”

“Sure has, mate,” Stephen said. “He’s upstairs.”

I don’t remember exactly what I shouted at him, just that thankfully he didn’t take it personally. 

I never even knew we were allowed on the second floor, and the whole time I had assumed the owners or family lived in the bedrooms there. Later on after the studios closed the house returned to being a proper mansion, but back in the 80’s the house portion remained delegated to the top floor only. 

I went up the stairs as quietly as possible, my heart threatening to escape my chest. The walls were yellow, bare, and dimly lit; I imagine most of the property’s money in those days went to studio operations. To the left across the hall stood a white door that, unlike the others, clearly had a light on beyond it. 

I knocked on the door hesitantly.

“Mozzer, I know you’re in there. It’s just me.”

Morrissey remained silent after I knocked again, so I opened the door myself. I found him lying on the bed, face buried in one of the many white pillows. He wore a matching white robe he must have nicked from one of the drawers. As I walked in and called his name once more, he turned on his side to face away from me.

I walked awkwardly to the side of the bed before deciding to sit on the edge of it, which Morrissey took great offense to.

“Johnny, please don’t,” came his muffled voice. I could tell he’d been crying, not like it was some great mystery to begin with.

“I have to apologize to you.”

This wasn’t something I had really planned on saying, but I realized it right then. I hated seeing him like this more than anything. 

“Go on then,” he said bitterly, and I nodded even though he couldn’t see me.

“I’m sorry for what happened yesterday and I hope you know I had to do what I did. We had no other choice. Your back covered in mud and us being a right mess wasn’t looking any good.”

“That doesn’t make me any less humiliated,” he said miserably. “They’re all onto us anyway, no matter how many lies you’ve managed to tell. I walked straight into an ambush today.”

“You know, then?” I asked quickly. “That they might have seen us? I’m… I’m fucking worried, mate.”

Invigorated by his anger, Moz turned over to face me. The top of his robe opened as he lay on his side again, exposing his unshaven skin down to the loose knot at his waist. I kicked my shoes off and sat closer to him on the bed. 

“Of course I know. I was properly humiliated by them just a few minutes ago, as I imagine you were. And now you’re running back to me for help,” he hissed. “You’ve done it to me every day and you can’t handle it for a minute.”

“I’m sorry, Moz, I really am. But do you know what happens if these guys think I’m gay or something? That’s our necks on the line, and it’s more than just Mike or Andy joking around. If we think this is bad, the headlines won’t be having a laugh at us like we're some sexy, promiscuous rockstars. We’re not the Dolls, we’ll be called lunatic fags. Mate, we’d be done.”

Morrissey sighed heavily, closing his tired, red eyes. I had little idea of his battle in those days. In the years following he became bigger and more mature looking, and he was able to get away with a lot more. But in his current fragile and feminine state he was under high suspicion and served as a frequent target. And regrettably, I had been one of his tormentors. 

“I just wish…” he trailed off, rubbing his eyes. “Never has someone been _proud_ to be with me, do you understand? No, of course you don’t,” he decided, without looking to me for a response. “I don’t care about the sexuality, that’s all nonsense. For once I thought things would be different. Silly me.”

The ever dramatic Morrissey closed his eyes, chin out, as if these were his dying words to me. He looked heavenly laying on the white bed, his dark, sparkling eyelashes and unwashed hair contrasting beautifully against it. Though I’d hurt him badly, I wondered if deep down he appreciated me being there. 

“Things _are_ different,” I insisted. “I regret a lot of what I did yesterday. And today. But earlier, when we… you know. That’s not one of ’em.”

Moz managed to look at me, if only for a second. Then he looked back down to the duvet and squeezed his eyes shut.

“It’ll be okay,” I said, as it struck me more and more that it wouldn’t. “Perhaps we’ll joke about us having a scrap, you know, get our story straight. We can’t change anything that we’ve done, all we can do is pretend that everything is normal and nothing weird happened-”

“I can’t do that,” he whispered. 

The gravity of what he said stopped me - our situation was only looking worse and worse. We were trapped in this old bedroom and time was running out before someone came looking for me. Morrissey was still inconsolable, wiping tears away with the sleeve of his robe. And even worse, I had the desire to take him into my arms and kiss his wet cheeks. I wanted to slide the robe off his shoulders and massage the back of his neck and hear him whisper to me again and I didn’t know why. 

“I know,” I said weakly. “Please forgive me.”

“And why would I do that?” 

“Because you love me.”

“You don’t know that,” he shot back bitterly. 

“You love me Mozzer, I know you do. You love me and you’ve told me a thousand times, and a thousand times I had no idea. I’m not so good at poetry, you know.” 

He was silent a moment, unwilling to admit it.

“Yes, I suppose I’m just _that_ good,” he half smiled, and a tear rolled down his cheek.

“You are good, Moz, you’re great, you’re brilliant.”

I took his big hand in mine and squeezed it. 

“I’ve got to go downstairs now and talk to our less brilliant friends before they learn to read and make a proper mess of our work. Let me know the next time you go to hide out, won’t you?” 

I raised his fingers to my lips and kissed them. I looked into his eyes, wanting him to know I would kiss his lips if I could. 

“I will, Johnny.”

“Good. You stay here as long as you need, I’ll hold them off.”

* * *

Descending the stairs, I wondered if life could ever go back to normal. Morrissey was, for some reason, quite in love with me, distraught upstairs like a damsel in distress. And here I was entertaining it, comforting him, kissing his fingers. Did this house exist in some weird alternate timeline? Surely it had to. When we leave Jacobs, I decided, I’ll put myself on a steady diet of playboy mags and tits. 

“Continue your snogging?” Mike asked cheekily when I reached the control room. 

“Yeah, after dealing with you pricks we decided a nice romp in the mud and snogging was just what we needed.”

Andy snickered from the couch, but was thrown off enough by my joke that he stopped tuning his bass for a moment. 

“You two back to normal, then?” Stephen asked.

I nodded as if anything had ever been normal between me and Morrissey. And the coming week would show me exactly how not normal things could get. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my commander in b for proofreading. British is not my first language.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Only he and I know that something like a fight or a difference in lifestyles or court cases or who said what in the press about who, or what fans might say, is pretty small change compared to the connection we have. It’s very deep. In short, there’s a very big part of him that I understand. And he knows it.”
> 
> Johnny Marr on Morrissey, 2002

With Never Had No One Ever finished, the next song we went onto was Vicar in a Tutu. Well, it was supposed to be, according to Andy. I would have thought he was messing with me on purpose had any of us a clue what was going on. Luckily I hadn’t gotten too far practicing Vicar before Stephen Street asked me what the hell I was doing, of course we were recording I Know It’s Over today, as if everyone on earth was in on it. 

I went over my notes in the live room, a large, naturally lit area that housed a grand piano in the corner. It was there that Morrissey approached me. He was finally showered and wearing his own clothes, this time a white Smiths T-shirt with a blue button down over top.

“I’ll be staying late tonight if you’d like to join me,” he said, fidgeting with the pencil in his hand. I was greatly relieved to see him put together and his eyes dry. 

“Sounds good.”

“You know. Hiding out.”

“Hiding out,” I confirmed.

“Just me and all,” he added, raising his fuzzy eyebrows.

I was shocked at how quickly I went from relief to wanting to strangle him. I settled for a sigh and a wink, which seemed to please him enough. The corner of his lips raised in a slight smile, and he gave me a polite nod before leaving. 

We had a guest instrumentalist joining us that day, which forced us all to be on our best behavior. Our very temporary trumpet player was a balding, good-humored man who got on unusually well with miserable Mozzer, perhaps because he saved us from the torture of Mike and Andy. But apparently this wasn’t enough - Morrissey’s tie breaking vote kicked the trumpet off the final version of the song. 

The lights went down and the beer was passed around Studio 1. We went over the track as it stood, Stephen writing notes in the control room as we played it through together. Mike seemed into the addition of the trumpet, but Morrissey and I couldn’t help exchanging amused looks as we got further into the song. I shook my head at Moz as he used an empty beer bottle to deliver his most depressing lyrics, and he was unable to hide his laughter as the trumpet part danced incredibly inappropriately over them. The trumpet player was down a few beers himself at this point. He ended the heartbreaking track with a sexy James Bond Goldfinger flourish that made Morrissey fall over laughing, and even Stephen Street couldn’t hold it together.

“We’ll wrap this up tomorrow,” Stephen announced, head in his hands. “I swear, this album’s going to end up with three tracks on it.” 

“There’s a light, there’s a guitar, and there’s a microphone. Best album you ever heard,” I half joked. I packed my guitar away and sat down on the control room couch next to Morrissey, content that a day had finally gone smoothly. 

“Anyone need a lift?” Stephen asked. “Johnny, Andy? I don’t want to see anyone’s car in that pool tomorrow morning.”

I was calculating in my buzzed brain how to stay behind for Morrissey. Typically everyone finished recording at different times so slipping away was easy, but everyone leaving at once was trickier. 

“I’m good, we still got a pub to hit tonight,” Andy called back, doing his best to separate drumsticks from beer bottles. 

“Moz could use a lift,” I announced, and received a swift kick in the foot.

“But Johnny, tonight,” Moz whispered, and I kicked him back harder.

Stephen collected the distressed Morrissey, who looked like a puppy being taken to the pound, and I followed shortly behind through the front door of the mansion. We walked briskly through the cold night air, the large bushes along the walkway doing little to block out the biting wind. I let Morrissey wave a civil goodbye to Mike and Andy from the front seat of Stephen’s car.

“So… what did ya think of that trumpet?” I asked Stephen, watching carefully as Mike got into Andy’s car behind us. 

“No way that’s making the cut,” Stephen scoffed, opening his car door. “But in the end it’s not my say, is it?”

Andy shouted to me from his car, the headlights beaming straight into my eyes. “Johnny, you coming with us or what?”

“No, go on!” I shouted back, and thankfully they hardly waited before backing out of the drive with some annoying screeching and honking. Stephen started his car and made to roll the windows up.

“Stephen, hold on,” I interrupted. “I’ve completely forgotten where my notes went. Moz, you know where they are, right?”

Morrissey nodded vigorously and scrambled out of the car at the opportunity. 

“You go ahead Stephen, I’ll drive us home in a few. Yes, yes, quite fine to drive.” 

I ran back after Moz, who was fumbling to unlock the front door, his fingers surely as frozen as mine. When we finally made it inside he was laughing like before, the result of relief and our bit of mischief. Suddenly everything was warm again.

“They shouldn’t be onto us now,” I grinned, looking around and admiring the empty house. “My acting skills aren’t top but at least Mike and Andy think you went home with Stephen.”

“He might still be out front, we’d better check,” Moz sighed. 

I followed Morrissey to the window next to the front door. There were no headlights to be seen outside, only our reflection looking back at us. I wrapped my arms around Moz from behind and undid the buttons on his black coat one by one. Then I slipped the coat off his shoulders and threw it aside, the buttons echoing off the floor in the empty house. I threw my own coat on top of his.

For a few minutes we wandered the hall, peering into the other empty studios before stopping at our own. We cracked up again when we turned the light of our control room on and saw the scene of the trumpeting crime, empty beer bottles still laying about. 

“Take this,” Morrissey said, handing me one of the chocolate bars he pulled out of the mini fridge. 

No matter our differences, chocolate and Coke was something we always shared - most of our Smiths tours were fuelled by that alone. The beverage mind you, though the rest of us built a few happy snowmen in our day. 

Chocolate in hand, we climbed upstairs to the bedroom that housed our previous nervous breakdown. I flashed back to one afternoon in 1983 when Moz was late for dinner at home but refused to let something so trivial separate us. His stomach growled again and I laughed, and to his great distress I set my guitar aside, begging him to ring his family to see if he could stay for supper. 

“No, no,” he insisted, knuckles pressed to his lips. “I’m rather picky, you don’t want to deal with me.”

But deal with him I did. When the only food he chose out of my kitchen was toast and Cadbury chocolate, I made us a big plate of both. Moz grabbed two Cokes and we retreated to my room, setting the plate on the floor with us. We sat cross legged in front of each other as per our tradition, next to the window that was much darker than usual. He had never stayed so late before. 

“You eat and I’ll play,” I told him, reaching over to grab the guitar that I had set against my bed.

Moz was quite scrappy in those days. He never started fights, but he could finish them with a single punch. He liked to playfully nudge his friends around, especially me, and looking back I have to wonder how I never picked up on anything.

The young Morrissey lunged for my exposed stomach and I wasn’t quick enough. He pushed me and I missed the guitar, nearly knocking it over. I hit him in the arm and he smiled as he reached for me again. 

“Those things are bloody clubs!” I laughed, grabbing his fist as he swung at me. “I brought you toast for heaven’s sake, now _bloody_ eat it!”

I guided his hand toward the toast and tried to make him grab a piece, but he only looked at me slyly as I held onto him. I took a piece myself and threw it at him, then grabbed another and pushed it toward his mouth. He opened his mouth and made a silly face at me, but even when trying to make a silly face he was obnoxiously good looking.

Climbing the stairs of the Jacobs house, I felt sick to my stomach that this had been nearly three years ago. How could it be when I remembered everything so clearly?

Our footsteps were frighteningly loud as we entered the upstairs bedroom of the mansion. I nearly jumped out of my skin when Morrissey threw himself onto the bed and it creaked, and I tried to hide my surprise with a cough. As glad as I was to be with him, us being discovered together had become my worst nightmare. 

A little black radio sat on the nightstand at the far end of the bed. I tuned it to an appropriate rock station while Morrissey laid on his back and polished off the chocolate bar, licking his fingers clean when he thought I wasn’t looking. I caught his gaze while he still had a finger in his mouth and he flushed red. 

“Mine next.”

I crawled onto the bed next to him, laying on his left side, and pushed a finger to his lips. He laughed at first but stuck his tongue out anyway, giving me a gentle lick. I was thinking about how I’d hardly seen anything so beautiful as him laying there, tongue out and eyes closed, when his brow furrowed and he made a puzzled face. 

“Never even tasted a finger before?” I teased. “Gold star vegetarian.”

“Oh, shut up,” he complained, then kicked me in the shin. I kicked back, my leg landed between his, and soon he was taking jabs at me just like the old days. Only this time I didn’t punch back.

I let the shots hit my stomach as I got on top of him, pausing just before my lips met his. His eyes pleaded me to go on and I felt him breathing quickly underneath me. When I kissed him he moaned in relief and pulled on me where he had pushed before. 

“Taste better?” I asked, and he shoved me once more in the stomach.

I tugged Moz’s shirt up and exposed his chest, not wanting to break our kiss to throw the shirt off him. He grabbed the top of the shirt himself, leaned forward slightly, and ripped it in half with his hands. I stared at his bare chest as he breathed heavily. 

“How did you even _do_ that?” I asked, running my hands down his exposed sides. He shivered and grabbed the bars of the headboard behind him.

“I’m not telling you that,” he said smugly, raising his eyebrows as he looked down at me. 

I took my hands off him in protest. It wasn’t long before he gave in and started talking. 

“Fine! It’s a trick. You cut a little slit at the top of your shirt - I’ve cut nearly all of mine,” he admitted. I kissed down his stomach as he spoke, feeling him squirm beneath me. Within moments my shirt was gone too, and his legs opened at the feeling of my skin on his. 

“I just never know when I’ll use it, you know? I don’t want to - _really, my armpit Johnny?_ \- be onstage and forget I’m wearing a shirt with no cut in it… _oh, fucking hell._ And once you’ve cut the shirt it’s simple, laying down on a bed though is -”

His breath caught and he yelped as if I’d slapped him. I took my tongue off his nipple and stared up at him, concerned, but only saw him with his mouth hanging open and his hands gripping the headboard for dear life. His eyes were squeezed shut and he was still moaning from over stimulation. My mouth opened wide in marvel and amusement.

“Oh Johnny, oh god, I’m sorry,” he cried. He let go of the headboard and slid his right hand down to his jeans, covering his erection. 

“No, no, I love it,” I grinned. “That was incredible. Can I keep going?”

He nodded and watched as I kissed his chest, gripping my hair with his left hand and himself with his right. I held his tiny waist tight as I licked his nipples, getting them both wet, then pressed my thumbs to them. Morrissey was moaning so loudly that surely anyone left in the house would have called an ambulance had they heard him.

I grabbed the bulge of his jeans and he pushed against my hand, whispering my name over and over as I moaned into his chest. I went to undo his zipper, at which he quickly crossed his legs and rolled over onto his side facing me. He pulled my face into his stomach and I kissed it gently as he gasped for air.

“Johnny,” he said between breaths, running his fingers through my hair. I climbed up his body and kissed his cheek. 

“Moz-zer,” I whispered slowly in his ear. He sighed and squeezed my side in response. 

“Johnny, I already….” 

I fell into him laughing, holding him close, and his chest still felt wet against my cheek. I kissed his lips and he smiled, flustered. 

“I’m sorry, I’m rather embarrassed,” he said softly, but was unable to hide a laugh at his own expense. “And I didn’t want this to end. I don’t want any of this to end.”

I moved up the bed to lay down on the pillows and he joined me. Moz kissed my chest a few times before kissing my lips again, savoring it.

“A few nights won’t hurt anyone,” I said.

“Longer,” Moz replied, and kissed my lips again.

“We could _maybe_ get away with a week.”

“Longer,” Moz pleaded, kissing me again.

I touched his cheek and looked into his eyes, thinking that I could definitely get used to a week of this. Lying on a soft bed with Morrissey, letting him gaze at my every move in his own wondrous, dreamy way. Wrapping my arm around the lovely curve of his side while we fell asleep. 

“Maybe. But it can’t leave the house.” 

He fell into my chest, and when he didn’t pick his head back up I knew he’d started crying. I stroked his hair and rubbed his back comfortingly, letting him stay on top of me as long as he needed. I continued to stay still while he cleaned himself up and washed his face; I didn’t dare move in case he went to sleep without being in my arms. He stepped out of the bathroom still sniffling. 

Morrissey fell asleep safely on my chest, and I was awake for at least an hour longer, my mind running through our time in the studio, saying goodbye to Stephen and the rest of them, and my nose nudging Moz’s warm stomach as he held me. 

We slept peacefully, neither of us remembering we had left our coats on the floor downstairs. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get your bulbous salutations ready.

Morrissey had slipped off my chest during the night but stayed curled up with my right side. When the alarm on my left went off he reached for it, but hit my chest instead and fell back asleep. 

“Come on, we got ‘bout an hour before Stephen gets here,” I said, shaking him. “We can find you a lovely breakfast of… whatever it is you eat.”

I poked his stomach and he groaned.

“I just want to stay here,” he lamented, but rolled out of bed anyway. 

I watched him slouch over to the dresser by the window, lazily picking up his clothes from yesterday off the floor as he went. Sunlight crept in through the blinds, shining onto parts of the dresser and the bed. I nervously checked the clock but couldn’t be arsed to get up yet. 

“I’ve got to find clothes in here that look like something I would wear,” Moz said, sliding a drawer open and pulling something green and striped out. “How’s this one?”

“No good. That’s a men’s shirt.”

Morrissey threw yesterday’s T shirt in my face, which I was too groggy to catch. After he turned around I pressed it against my lips, breathing it in. 

Something about watching him had become relaxing to me. I felt as if I didn’t have to worry when I was around him. I used to hate his apathetic stares and how he rolled his eyes at everything, even at such silly things as the dresser in front of us, but I understood now. The world truly does suck and Morrissey wasn’t about to pretend it didn’t to make other people feel better. The world was full of people who would chew with their mouths open or talk too much or antagonize him or keep us apart, but not us. 

Somehow brushing our teeth felt like the most homosexual thing we’d done together. He gave me such a sweet look in the mirror that I shoved him into the sink while he leaned over it.

Moz was drying his face when I turned the shower on and took my trousers off. 

“Oh,” he said shyly, turning around to leave the bathroom.

“Catch, Mozza,” I said, throwing a towel at him. He turned red but followed my lead. 

The light coming through the bathroom door was enough, so I left the room nice and dim. I tugged on the waistband of Moz’s trousers and he gave me an innocent, surprised look, trying to keep his gaze from travelling downward. 

“It’s okay, you can look,” I told him softly, running my thumb along his cheek. He felt rough from not having shaved recently, which he had to do every day, sometimes twice if there was a special occasion. 

Moz pulled his own trousers down like it was a bothersome chore, giving me a kiss afterward to distract from his naked body. 

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” I said, hitting him in the arse as we got into the shower. “You’re a very pretty girl.” 

“Oh, button it Johnny.”

We stepped into the shower clumsily and I guided him to stand in front of me. I reached up and scratched behind his ears and down his neck, and he stumbled backward into me at the feeling as I felt my way around his hips. My wet hands traveled up his sides and pressed into his chest, at which he moaned and pressed his hands on top of mine. 

“I love how sensitive your chest is,” I said with a smile, and he pushed my hands away in embarrassment. 

He leaned over to grab something - “Anyway, this must be the shampoo” - and I couldn’t resist the urge to grab his arse. I hadn’t had much time to think about my sexuality (that mental breakdown would come later), but I noticed this attraction was much the same as I had felt with girls before. Somehow, this made me feel better. Perhaps I was attracted to femininity and it was Morrissey’s fault for being so bloody feminine. 

Morrissey turned to face me and my fingers circled his waist, tracing his hips and the dimples of his back. He rolled his eyes at my inability to keep my hands off him and squeezed shampoo into his hand. I pulled him into a kiss as he spread the flowery scent through my hair, both of his hands massaging me gently. 

“Johnny move, I’m cold,” he said suddenly, pushing me out of the way. 

“Alright princess, you stand in the water,” I grumbled, trading places with him.

Moz did a much more innocent job of washing my hair and soaping me down. He slightly tickled under my arm with his long fingers and I could feel him blushing as I turned my back to him. He paused when he turned me back around and noticed my erection. 

“I’m sorry Johnny, I know you probably want me to do, er… oral... sex," he said nervously, barely able to speak the words. "I’m terribly embarrassed that I might not know how."

“That’s fine, love, you’ll learn someday. But for now you’ve driven me mad.”

“ _Me?_ ” he asked incredulously, but couldn’t hold back a look of delight. “Driven you mad? All I’ve done is stand here.”

“And a fine job you’ve done of it, mate.”

He held my hips gently as I turned around and pressed my back to him. 

“How should I…” he said softly, and I took his hand and placed it on me. 

I leaned back, letting the warm water flow onto me, pushing myself against Moz. I let go of his hand and he stroked up and down on his own, terribly slowly. Part of me wondered if he’d ever even done this to himself, but nonetheless I found it enticing. He was believed by so many to be pure and celibate, yet his unsteady hand was now so eager to please me. 

“Is it alright?” he asked anxiously. 

“Please, please, faster,” I begged, gripping into my own shoulder. To my surprise, Moz took my fingers in his mouth and sucked on them. His tongue swirled around and he kissed the tips lightly.

“Talk to me, Mozzer,” I said, placing my hand on the wall of the shower as my legs got weaker. My breathing was heavy and I could feel Moz’s own excitement against me. 

“What do I say?” he asked hesitantly.

“Doesn’t matter,” I panted. “Just in my ear.”

After a few moments of only the falling water and my heavy breathing, he leaned in close and licked at my neck. The sound of his kissing and deep moaning filled my ear, the last thing I heard before I doubled over and cried out.

I felt Morrissey place a hand on my back, concerned, and I told him I was fine and to turn the shower off. I sat on the floor of the shower to recover, soaking wet and spent, while he wrapped himself in his towel. 

“How was it? Did I do okay?” Moz asked, sitting on the side of the tub and handing me a comb. I couldn’t help but laugh. Morrissey had just experienced what I assumed was the most sexual encounter of his life, and he was still worried about the state of my hair.

“It was so good that I’m disturbed, love,” I said honestly. 

When he was satisfied with my combed hair, we made our way back to the bedroom. I enjoyed the peaceful silence of the morning as I sprawled back out on the bed. Moz stopped at the dresser and buttoned up the large striped shirt he found, then dropped his towel to the ground to search the lower drawer for jeans. I tried not to smile in case the cheeky bastard turned around. 

“Moz, stay still,” I said quickly.

“What, having a wank?” he joked.

“No, no, hush it!”

The front door to the Jacobs house opened downstairs. Morrissey pressed his knuckles to his mouth when he heard it shut, not daring to move.

“The coats,” he whispered.

We heard Stephen say “What the -” before stopping, realizing we were still there and could possibly hear him. It was another few long moments before we heard his footsteps move to Studio 1 and close the control room door.

“Oh Jesus, he knows,” I said, defeated. I ran my fingers through my hair, feeling like I could pull it out. “Bloody fucking hell, he knows. The car’s still outside an’ everything. I’m _so_ fucked!” 

“Hell with it,” Morrissey said. “They don’t know anything.”

“They’re all suspicious of us already,” I hissed back. 

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I bloody do! I have to get down there before he tells anyone,” I said hurriedly, throwing on my clothes from yesterday. “Stay up here. If we both go down at the same time it’ll look even more suspicious, just hang back a few minutes.” 

I couldn’t believe my own stupidity as I made my way to the control room, feeling like my heart might give out. I had been so incredibly dense to think we could keep this up for a few more weeks when we hadn’t even made it a few days. My mind flashed back again and again to us leaving the coats - I was so giddy with the idea we’d fooled Stephen that I didn’t even finish the job properly, and now I was to pay dearly for it. 

I stopped outside the control room and took a few deep breaths. Then I opened the door. 

“Hello mate, ready to finish this one?” I said as cheerfully as I could. 

Stephen didn’t turn around in his chair at first, and somehow this was worse than if he had looked at me.

“I sure hope so. Everyone sleep alright?”

“They better ‘ave. Got no time to waste anymore.”

I sat in the chair next to him and pretended to read over the session notes but my mind was racing. There was no way he didn't know about Moz and I and the tension was going to kill me before he announced it. ‘Everyone?’ What the hell could everyone mean? Then I nearly tore my hair out wondering if he had hidden the coats or left them out in the open for the others to find, but it was too late to go back and check. For once I was relieved when Mike and Andy showed up, since luckily they didn’t seem to find me very interesting. They immediately started talking to Stephen like I had, and I calmed down a bit. 

Morrissey walked in sheepishly during their conversation, which wasn’t unusual of him. He stepped between Stephen and I to grab his notebook off the desk, and I exhaled when I saw his green, striped shirt hang in front of me for a second. He floated over to the couch with it, immediately looking deep in thought, fuzzy eyebrows furrowed.

“How was the pub last night?” Stephen asked. “I suppose it was just Mike and Andy there?”

“It was alright,” Mike said with a shrug. “You should’ve come along, Johnny.”

“Oh no, too busy. Too many things to do.” 

“Didn’t get into any more fights, did ya?” Andy laughed.

“No, I think my fighting days are over,” I answered, doing my best to sound lighthearted. 

This seemed to work. Andy gave me a “fair enough” and left the room, and Mike stepped into the recording space to grab his drumsticks. Morrissey gave me a nod of reassurance before exiting for the live room, and I wondered if I could telepathically get the status of the coats from him. But I only had a few minutes alone with Stephen and I had to make use of them. Naturally I was intimidated to bring this up with him; the only person in the world that wouldn’t intimidate me in this situation had very recently exited the room. But I wasn’t going to risk Stephen telling Andy or Mike or anyone else. 

He shuffled his folders and nearly stood up when I sighed loudly to grab his attention. 

“Stephen.”

“Yes, Johnny.”

He set his folders back down in front of him and turned to me.

“You know we were here,” I said. 

“I found the lights on and everything.”

Stephen shook his head at me in disgust as my reaction confirmed his suspicions. I realized how stupid we looked - Moz and I surely smelled the same, our hair was still wet, I was wearing yesterday’s clothes, and that wasn’t even to mention the car. 

“I fucked up. So bad.” 

Mike passed through the room with his drumsticks, but upon seeing us deep in conversation and faced with the possibility of having to do Work, he left again. 

“You did fuck up,” Stephen said sternly. “This is one of the best records I’ve ever worked on and you could seriously ruin that for everyone here. I could pick up the phone over there and destroy all of your careers in 60 seconds.”

I put my head in my hands as the reality of the situation hit me. I had kissed Morrissey of all people and his hands had been all over me and now Stephen bloody Street could see it in my eyes. I’d been kissing a man and apparently I’d liked it. It felt so unreal and so unlike me. 

“I should have known hanging around him he’d try to… _convert_ me.”

“You can kick him out of the band you know. If he’s being queer.”

I nodded slowly, knowing that both disagreeing and agreeing with him could have horrendous outcomes. 

“Coming from someone who’s seen a lot of bands come and go: Find yourselves a lead singer who gets girls and will actually go party with you. And then with the press from all that you could have a number 1 in no time.” 

I was quiet for a second. Our record label had been awful to us, even more so because we hadn't produced a number one single yet. The four of us had discussed before whether the label might be holding us back from this on purpose by delaying releases and purposefully choosing tracks doomed to die on the charts. But why would they do that? Mike and Andy had implied before that it might be the fault of our vocalist's long, infamous fight with the founder of the label, who unfortunately had the right to control everything we put out. 

“We could really use a number one hit," I admitted.

Stephen nodded solemnly and stood up. He opened the door to the control room and looked out at the hallway.

“Remember Johnny, we don’t need any of... _that_ around here,” he told me. “You think about it. I’m going to find Mike now, we’ll be starting in… 10 minutes?”

I followed him into the hallway and separated from him to check for the coats. Thankfully they’d been picked up, probably by Morrissey, and I found them in the nearby closet. 

I pulled a fag out of my coat as soon as I stepped outside and sat down on the porch steps, already lost in thought. 

Stephen was right. I thought about how Moz had caught me at a sentimental and vulnerable time in my life. Somehow he'd convinced me to do horrible, disgusting things with him. He selfishly dragged me to him to cure his own self-induced loneliness, and now I was forced to deal with the consequences. I tried to convince myself I hadn’t liked it, but memories of clinging to him last night and that morning kept creeping in. I pushed them away. I brushed off the pleasurable feelings as my being gullible and confused and excited to do something bad. 

Then I wondered what he was up to now - probably alone in the live room, going over lyrics while Mike and Stephen started setting up the drums. But he wouldn’t really be going over lyrics. He wouldn’t know for sure yet how much the rest of them knew about us. There was no way he didn't care as he had claimed earlier. I imagined him being even more scared than I was, and I felt no need to comfort him. I decided to let go of it, to not care what he felt. 

I decided I had to get rid of him. 

**Author's Note:**

> more chapters coming soon <3


End file.
